


All the Ways We Fall Apart (and Piece Ourselves Back Together Again)

by iliveinfantasies



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: AvaLance, F/F, Gen, The Waverider (DC's Legends of Tomorrow), Time Bureau, dctv - Freeform, dcu - Freeform, gayyyyy, why am i like this, why do i write these things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-06-11 00:47:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15303756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iliveinfantasies/pseuds/iliveinfantasies
Summary: "She says your name as two distinct syllables, these days. Like it’s too hard to say as one word. Like she’s pulling off pieces with her teeth, feeling around the sharp edges with her tongue; cracking off pieces with each crack in her voice. Like they’re breaking."When both of you are broken, it's hard to bounce back to life. But you'll try--you'll really, fucking try.A collection of all of the broken bits of Ava and Sara. Chapter fic, switching perspectives each chapter. Things do look up a little at the end.





	1. Sara

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm back at fanfiction again, apparently. And very excited about it! Legends of Tomorrow (avalance, in particular) is my new obsession, so I'm pretty excited. 
> 
> This piece will be several chapters, and it does, actually, get somewhat happier. So that will be interesting. It will be switching perspectives every chapter.
> 
> This piece takes place post-Season 3, so spoilers are here. Sort of. It's kind of angsty, which honestly is just like me to write. I'm also working on a coffee-shop AU, so I needed something to balance it out.  
> As always, comments and criticisms are super welcome. 
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr as @iliveinfantasylife!

She says your name as two distinct syllables, these days. Like it’s too hard to say as one word. Like she’s pulling off pieces with her teeth, feeling around the sharp edges with her tongue; cracking off pieces with each crack in her voice. Like they’re breaking.

Like she’s breaking.

You say her name like it’s made of sugar. Wispy, sweet, and fleeting; liable to melt on your tongue. Like it’s going to disappear.

Like she’s going to disappear.

Because it’s little things that go, at first. The spark. The resulting fire. All that’s left in her eyes, now, is the ashy mess after it all burns.

“There is no me to--,” she breathes to the air at night, shakes her head, clutches at her arms with her fingernails. Blows out frustrated huffs through her teeth.

“There is no  _ me. _ ”

And even though you’re expecting them, hearing those specific words, from those specific lips, feels like a new, more subtle form of death, of dying--and you would know, you would fucking  _ know _ \--like burning slowly, like a simmering starting underneath your skin.

You don’t realize you’re shaking your head until you feel her press the pads of her fingertips to your arm, revel in their slight roughness against your skin.

“Stop it, Sara,” she says in her Director Sharpe voice. No, her  _ Agent Sharpe _ voice. You feel yourself bristle, almost instinctively, because somehow, still, after all this time, Ava’s Agent Sharpe voice sparks a rebellious flame in your chest. You swallow it, hard. Cough slightly.  _ Inhale. _

“Ava--” you begin, but she cuts you off.

“No, Sara,” she says, louder now. Her voice is hard and impossibly flat. Like the days before. Like the days before she was  _ yours. _

No, god, not  _ yours _ , you know that’s not right. Because you don’t fucking  _ have _ people. Because  _ you _ don’t fucking have people.

Except you sort of did, once.

Before you gave her your entire self.

“Ava…” you try again, and cut yourself off, because you don’t actually know what you’re going to say.

She laughs, this time, a horrid, unnatural sounding thing, acidic enough to burn. She turns her head just enough to face you. Even in the dark her eyes are bright. Even when they’re flat-like-cement. Even when there’s nothing behind them. They’re fucking beautiful. She’s too fucking beautiful. Like actual, physical starlight. And she burns just as bright.

Or, she used to.

Except her lips are moving, again, forming those words you want to scratch out of the sky as she speaks. 

“There is no me,” they say. “Just Ava. Ava 1, Ava, 2, Ava 12. It doesn’t matter. Just a  _ thing. _ ”

Except she’s not  _ those _ Ava’s, she’s  _ your _ Ava. And that makes all the difference.

But you’ve never been good with words; you’ve never been eloquent, or good at communicating, not really, and you don’t know how to tell her--

Tell her that it’s not her  _ face  _ or her  _ body  _ that makes you love her. It’s her--

It’s her--

It’s  _ her. _

Just like that, then.

But you know you never will. Because she’ll never listen.


	2. Ava

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Because you can’t convince her.  
> Because she is, after all, for all intents and purposes, a killer.
> 
> But she’s your killer. Or, at least, she used to be.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends, thanks for sticking with my depressing fic! I love me some angst, sorry. But also, there will be some happiness in this, I promise.
> 
> As always, come find me at @iliveinfantasylife on tumblr and fangirl about Avalance with me!

“ _ A monster,”  _ she whispers to you in the quieter moments, at night, sharing sheets in the bitter dark. “A  _ killer.” _

 

_ No, no, no,  _ you breathe into her hair, her neck, her overly-soft pillow. Press your lips to her temples, softly, silently, quiet in a way you didn’t know you were capable of. You draw the words back in, all coffee and ashes and lavender shampoo. They taste like scotch, biting and sharper than they should be. They taste like her.

 

You say them again, in this cycle. Breathing into her hair, her ear, her chest. But you can’t convince her, because you can’t correct her, not really.  Because part of it is true. Because you’ve been conditioned to speak the truth.  _ Programmed  _ to speak the truth.  _ Programmed  _ into—

No. That was a thought for another day. Another lifetime. Another  _ Ava. Ava 3? Ava 4, maybe?  _ Stop, Ava. Not now.

Not now.

 

Because you can’t convince her.

Because she is, after all, for all intents and purposes, a killer.

 

But she’s _ your  _ killer. Or, at least, she used to be.

 

And it’s these times that you hate yourself the most. These times when you can’t get rid of that part of yourself, that one, nagging aspect of your personality, that one part of Ava Sharpe that has been losing you friends since--

Except. Except, no. That’s not right. Because, you realize, there really isn’t a part of “you.”

And you honestly hate that even more.

 

And you’re doing it again.

 

But her breaths are becoming ragged, and the stillness of the silence is overwhelming, now, so you pull yourself back out of your self-loathing to focus on hers. Except you’re not prepared for the way her teeth are gritted behind her lips, the way her fingernails bite into her palms, the sharp, metallic tang of blood softly penetrating the air around you as they cut into a million tiny slits into her skin. The way her whole body starts to shake with her own, special brand of fury, pulling the sheets out from around you, punching her fingers into her pillows, once, twice, as though punishing them for providing any kind of softness to her life.

 

And you would have been afraid to touch her, once, but that was before, that was before—

Before you lost her, the first time.

 

So you reach out your fingers, softly, softly. Place them on her shaking back, dig your nails lightly into her spine.

 

And she stops, for just a moment. Tenses. Keeps her face turned away.

 

“Sara,” you try to say, but what comes out is, “shhh.” And it’s not what you meant to say, originally, but it’s what you can say right now.

So you lean in, wrap your arms gently around her middle, still turned away from you. Press your face close. “Shhh,” you whisper. “Shhh,” to her back. “Shhh,” to her hair in the dark. “Shhh,” directly to her heart.

 

And she shudders, violently—because everything about her is just a little violent, just a little too sharp, in just the most beautiful way—and finally, completely, stills. 

 

You press your body closer, your stomach against her spine, and you’re struck by how  _ right  _ this feels. Your body, holding hers, and—

But it’s not really  _ your  _ body, is it? It’s not—

No.

  
_ Your  _ body, in this moment. Yours, against hers, right now.


	3. Ava

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You finally say it back one day, in the stillness of the aftermath of a mission gone completely wrong.”
> 
> Or, Ava tries to tell Sara how she feels about her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 of this angst fest! But we have some hope at last. Thanks for all who are sticking with me on this one. I love comments, criticisms, kudos, anything you have to give. And come find me on Tumblr: @iliveinfantasylife

You finally say it back one day, in the stillness of the aftermath of a mission gone completely wrong. Ray is in the medbay getting nettles extracted from his forearms, and Zari is in the room next store angrily slamming through the refrigerator, Gideon yelling terse orders at her to “stop throwing my food around, Ms. Tomaz, or I will replace all of the donuts with dried apple rings.”

So it comes out at the wrong time, in the wrong way, with the wrong words. With no words at all, actually. Because though you first feel it in your stomach, you also feel the way it catches on your ribcage on the way up, fluttering through the hollowness of your chest like a bird, shedding pieces of itself along the way to your mouth until finally all that makes its way out is a strangled “I--.”

But it is a sound, of some variety, so she abruptly stops halfway through unlacing one of her ridiculously complex combat boots, as though she can  _ sense _ the sentence trapped behind your teeth, feel the way the words hover just beneath your skin.

You suck in, sharply, irritated with yourself for floundering--you’re not known for mincing your words, not at  _ all _ \--and choke on the coolness of the air filling your throat. Try again.

“I--”

And though you feel it as an actual physical sensation, an icy jolt working its way through your veins, through every hole in your heart, you can’t seem to get the rest of the words out. Despite the way she’s looking at you, one shoe halfway off in her hand, an odd ink stain down the right hand side of her shirt, the corners of her eyelids working their way down into the sort of half-lidded stare she reserves just for you.

_ Maybe  _ just for you.

_ Hopefully _ just for you.

Despite the memory of her hands burning marks into your skin like hot metal when she first told you how she felt on the day you discovered--

Before you shut her down.

Before you let her go.

And she’s still looking at you sharply, out of the corner of her eye, as though she can see you straight through your skin, and you think maybe she actually can, and you wonder if your bones are metal, underneath all the manufactured lab skin, and-- 

And she drops her shoe.

And she floats over to you, somehow, softly. 

And she places her hands on your cheeks, again, just like before.

And they burn like hot metal.

_ I know, _ her fingers whisper against your skin.

_ I know _ , her eyelashes flutter into your forehead.

_ I love you, too. _

And that, you find, is enough.


	4. Sara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s in these times that your vulnerability hits you, hard, like a single, swift kick to the chest. And as always, when this happens, you find yourself folding and refolding that single sheet of paper from her, tracing your fingers along the word girlfriend, written in her flowing, loopy script. That one last painful reminder of your killer instinct, of her quiet, subtle softness, that bit of her that flows out between breaths in the dark."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. I got a new job, and haven't had time to write, so thanks for sticking with me, those who have. Here is another Sara chapter! Things are getting better--slowly. 
> 
> I'm also now working on a high school AU, another random fic that takes place during season 3, and, of course, the coffee shop AU with lysippe.
> 
> Also, come visit me on Tumblr at iliveinfantasylife. As always comments and kudos are SUPER appreciated!

It happens again one evening when you’re lying down on your bed after one of those too-quiet days that sometimes slips in between missions. Where the rest of your days until now have been strangely ethereal demons (though really, did  _ anything  _ surprise you anymore?), endless fighting and planning and hunting and Constantine’s constant banter and Ava’s soft smiles and really, it was enough to make you dizzy with the thrill of it, until that one day when, for just a moment in time, everything just  _ stopped _ . And left you here, now, on your bed, with just you and your head.

It’s in these times that your vulnerability hits you, hard, like a single, swift kick to the chest. And as always, when this happens, you find yourself folding and refolding that single sheet of paper from her, tracing your fingers along the word  _ girlfriend _ , written in her flowing, loopy script. That one last painful reminder of your  _ killer instinct _ , of her quiet, subtle softness, that bit of her that flows out between breaths in the dark. From back before she was Director Sharpe, head of the time bureau. Before she was Clone Ava, cold, calculating, a well of self loathing and doubt. From back when, once again, that seed of shadow grew in your soul—the one you lost, before, and honestly was a secondhand-soul  _ ever truly _ worth saving?—and you almost,  _ again _ , killed every single person you love.

You always find yourself surprised to be holding the note, like it wasn’t  _ your _ breath that started to catch in your throat in short gasps, feeble and fleeting like a baby bird. Like it wasn’t  _ your _ shaking fingers that clutched desperately at the space beneath your pillow until they felt the folded edges of that one, ever-important sheet piece of paper, where you shoved it almost casually the night that you found it, when everything started to fray for the first time. You couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away, and had instead found wearing it with your fingers, almost to the point of silkiness. And you absolutely fucking hate yourself for this crutch, this one, pointless piece of hopefulness you just can’t seem to let go of, and you of  _ all  _ people should know how dangerous sentimentality is.

But you just can’t bring yourself to let go.

So it’s this way that Ava finds you later, laying on your bed, heart thumping wildly as you scramble in a panic to shove the note back under your pillow before Ava sees how pathetic you actually are. You realize in the back of your mind that Gideon didn’t warn you about Ava’s arrival, but you don’t have time to dwell on it because suddenly, there she is, sitting down next to you, gently coaxing your arm out from under your pillow, still clutching the now-torn note in your hand.

You stare at it for a moment, your stomach dropping uncomfortably, your heart collapsing in on itself,  _ just a little _ , when you see it torn. Like a sliver of your heart has broken off, lodging itself back into your chest. Like the carefully crafted facade you have surrounding it has developed a fissure, tiny hairline cracks, and you’re just waiting for the rest of it to crumble around you. And you know, you really do know how stupid that is. But you also know that, in some, small, stupid way, that was it. Your life-line, back to before, back to her.

Except she’s still right here, now, looking at you with overly-soft eyes. Glancing over at the note with something like surprise, something like heartache.

And you’re not quite sure when you reached that point, again.

But you swear you see Ava’s eyes spark just very slightly when she says, “Well. I guess I have to write you a new one.”

And you want to gasp in the relief of it, let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. But you’re still not quite ready to let go. So instead you unclench your hand, let the note fall back to the bed, and wrap your hand, instead, around her own.


	5. Ava

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the casual conversation that gets you, every single time.
> 
> One moment you’re laughing with Sara over some stupid prank she pulled on her friends in high school, the next moment the story you start to tell dies on your lips, fading out halfway down your tongue, sticky and thick--some horrid, rotting thing, a whole false part of you that absolutely isn’t even true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO EVERYONE! Thank you to those sticking with me and still reading my wordy little angst-fic over here. Well, not wordy, I guess. But. I digress.
> 
> Thank you for reading my stuff, and sticking with me. It truly means a lot. I've been writing a lot over the last couple of days, so if you're looking for some other Avalance fic, try giving my other ones a go. Fair warning, two of them are AU's. But not all.
> 
> Also, come visit me on Tumblr and flail and fangirl about the season premiere and Avalance and whatever else you want! I'm iliveinfantasylife.

It’s the casual conversation that gets you, every single time.

One moment you’re laughing with Sara over some stupid prank she pulled on her friends in high school, the next moment the story you start to tell dies on your lips, fading out halfway down your tongue, sticky and thick--some horrid, rotting thing, a whole false part of you that absolutely isn’t even true.

She notices the silence just a hair too late, her laugh echoing for just a moment longer than yours; a single, solitary chirp that sounds like a bang in the overly-quiet air. She stops, whips her head around to face you fully, eyes blazing and glittering dangerously and somehow so, so soft. But you can’t handle that level of softness, right now, not directed at you, at your eyes, at your heart. So you look down at your lap, sucking in your breath through your teeth, and try to breathe slowly, without counting. You’d tried, once, to count your breaths to calm yourself down. You’d leveled yourself, pulling the air through your pursed lips, sucking it into your throat until your chest felt like bursting—but you’d gotten stuck on twelve, and found yourself repeating the numbers, over and over.  _ 123456789101112\.  _ Breathe.  _ 123456789101112. _

Your breath comes in quick bursts, now—your manufactured lungs filling with the manufactured air on a manufactured ship, and  _ how appropriate _ , you think, wildly. The thought almost makes you laugh, a tiny, manic thing that you swallow quickly swallow down. You’d had a family, once. You’d had a history, a past, a  _ purpose. _

At least, you’d thought you did. 

Except you’d never really had those things, not really. No 13th birthday, no awkward middle school photos. No painful tumbles down the apple tree in the backyard, no resulting cast and months of learning to write with your left hand (you supposed, now, that being ambidextrous was something just programmed in—because of course, it would be). No sloppy first kisses, or the chest-tightening pain of a heartbreak that comes from the person you’re convinced you’re in love with at age 16.

And that—that was the very worst part of all.

You’d never truly loved before, you supposed. Not this  _ version  _ of you, anyway. You hadn’t been around to. You were missing an entire lifetime of relationships, kisses, touches, whispered phrases across dark rooms. You didn’t even know, truly, if you were capable of love. If you’d been  _ designed _ that way.

You don’t realize you’re shaking until something touches you, just slightly, on the chin. You’re brought crashing back to yourself, the touch--rough and calloused and so, so soft--slowly pushing up your chin, raising your head up until you meet a pair of eyes.  _ Her _ eyes. You try to look away, but she has you held firmly, blue eyes blazing furiously into your own. You open your mouth, shakily.

“I can’t—“ you choke out, trying to shake your head. “I never—“ words after words, the beginnings of thoughts bitten off at the root, torn through the middle by your teeth, a frantic, growing panic of phrases.

But you’re cut off by the soft silliness of Sara’s lips pressed to your forehead. A small, warm breath of air dancing over your skin. 

You’re not who you were before--there  _ was  _ no you, before.

You’re not even really sure if there’s a you, now.

But finally,  _ finally _ , just a little bit, you’re willing to find out who you could be.


End file.
